Bussed it down a drizzly 401 to Trenton;
a slow-draining mickey nestled in my crotch,
and walked, chucking it into a bush
along the drizzling way, to the old Quinte Hotel.
The room was every basement pub
from The Kap to Lakehead to Hogtown
and all the way up to The Horse
and maybe even Pang
from the woodpanel to the flag
to the pitted face of the barman
surprised to see me amble in.
I raised a pint (little sour) to Al,
and looked around the bar
but nobody seemed to be fighting tonight.
I’m not easily disappointed,
and I leaned across to the barman who,
like me, looked too young to be in the place,
and said, “You know
I don’t know what the fuss is about your beer.
That pint you pulled for me is stale, but I’ve had worse.”
The barman didn’t respond. He looked at me
the way people look at approaching car salesmen.
“Look, buddy,” he said. “I just heard you toast Al,
and that’s fine.
But if you think you’re in here for a bit of a scrap —”
I’m the first one to admit
that my arms bulge and my knuckles are scabby most days
“Well, you’re just gonna have to move on.”
He put two fists like iron sledges on the bar
and stared way down his broke-bent nose.
I looked around the room at all the guys sitting
and said, “Look, pal, I’m a poet.
I don’t need to fight in here tonight.
Hell, I could write a brawl in here
better than any you’ve ever seen.
Like one in an old western
where everybody in the room is fighting.
Or one like in the real bars
where space is casually cleared for the two guys
and you never know when it’s over.”
I flicked my chin up with a sniff
and looked around the room again
and saw that suddenly the place was filling up
with bikers and lacrosse players and hockey goons.
They swaggered in, stitches and stubble,
but the waitress would point out the menacing barman
to them and they’d quiet down quick enough.
I drank a few pints and watched them.
I could feel the barman not liking me. I’m good that way.
“Hey, buddy,” he said. “Said you’re a poet?
Well let’s hear one.” And it was like the room was listening.
They didn’t turn in their chairs or anything
In fact I never even caught a glance from most.
They just sat there rough and quiet
taking searching sips from their bottles.
I stood up and went for my notebook.
Of course I didn’t have it, because people
that carry their notebooks everywhere are assholes
and even worse are people who actually
carry their poems around loose with them
so naturally I didn’t have those either.
“Well, I don’t have any, pal,” I apologized
then felt like an asshole for apologizing.
The barman poured himself a triple shot of whisky
and drank it straight down. “So write one,” he said.
“Well I’m drunk and I never write when I’m drunk,” I said.
“But if you did, what would it be like?”
The room was still attentive.
“Never know,” I said.
“Maybe good, maybe bad. You might like it or you might not.
See I’m a real poet, pal. I just write them.”
The barman poured me a triple now
and gave me a bit of a smile. The room still listened
but gave no acknowledgement.
“To Al,” he said, raising one himself. “’Cause youth won’t
guarantee you the better future, so let the chips fall
where they may.”